Fear and Loathing in the Mojave
by Skyrocket
Summary: Following the Second Battle of Hoover Dam, journalist R. Duke heads to the Mojave to cover the NCR's annexation of New Vegas. But soon he finds himself pursuing the trail of the Courier instead.
1. Bat Country

**Fear and Loathing in the Mojave:**

**Chapter 1: Bat Country**

I was in an NCR outpost on the edge of the Mojave when the drugs began to take hold. "Say, this isn't bat country, is it?" I asked a trooper sitting two seats away from me at the bar.

"What?" he said, looking at me as if I'd asked him if he'd like to hump a bighorner.

"Bats," I repeated, knowing that in the part of my mind that wasn't addled by strong pills, a bit of jet and half a bottle of whiskey that making a scene in the cantina of military outpost was about as bad an idea as trying to hug a Deathclaw. But that part of my brain, thanks to the galaxy of pills I'd popped in a bathroom stall about twenty minutes prior, was most certainly not in control of my mouth.

"You know, bats. Ugly little fuckers that fly around at night and eat bugs."

The trooper gave me a look like he'd just found a large piece of brahman shit on his newly polished boots. "Yeah, I know what the fuck a bat is. What's it to you if there are any around here?"

"I've heard that they've got giant man-eating bats out this way. Come from some place called Carlsbad southwest of here," I rambled. "God damn things will swoop down and carry a man off before he knows what's hit him. Carry a man off and suck the blood out of him like a fucking vampire!"

My shouting was starting to attract attention and the trooper didn't seem to enjoy suddenly being at the center of my drug-induced foolishness. He glared at me. "I've never heard of any such thing. Never seen anything like it either. Sounds like Legion bullshit to scare people or junkies hallucinating."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that, Bruce," said another trooper who was nursing a drink at a nearby table. "People go missing in the Mojave all the time. I know I've found a skeleton or two that I couldn't tell what killed them. And shit, we **KNOW **there's all kinds of giant bugs all over this damn dessert. If there's giant bugs then it kinda makes sense that there's giant bats."

"That only makes sense if the giant bats are eating the giant bugs, Garcia. Not if they're sucking people's blood like this guy says. Now how about you go back to your drink and mind your own damn business!"

Garcia gave Bruce the finger but turned his attention back to his drink. Bruce turned his attention back me to and was able to say something but I beat him to the punch. "I've also heard that there's some kinda monsters living in Lake Mead and that most of the boys at Camp Guardian were eaten by whatever was in the lake. Professional soldiers fuckin' eaten, dammit! What the hell kinda place is this?"

That shut Bruce up real fast and from the glances the other troopers were giving each other they'd heard the same thing. Tossing out something with a ring from truth to it after an outburst of insane, drug-fueled bullshit had saved my ass more than once in the past and now it looked like it had come in handy again. Thank god soldiers talk when they drink and that caravaners gossip like old women. But I was too far from the glittering lights of New Vegas to blow all my luck at Mojave Outpost. It was time to cut and run.

"Anyway, that was just what I heard," I said in what I hoped was an amiable voice as I slid off the stool and tossed a few NCR bills onto the bar. It was a shitty tip but fuck the bartender. I needed to get out of here before it became too clear I was high as a kite. The jet and other extremely dangerous drugs I had stashed on my person would certainly get me a long stretch in jail if I was caught. But such are the risks of being a doctor of journalism with a fondness for chems and a healthy contempt for the law and most of the rules of polite society.

"Still, if I was you I'd keep a close eye on what was behind AND above me," I warned. "Especially at night. I know I didn't come all the way from San Francisco to end up bat guano." With that I quickly headed for the door while watching the troopers start to mutter among themselves nervously.

_Good, to let the fuckers have something to worry about,_ I thought as I headed for the main road. New Vegas and the Mojave Wasteland had finally become NCR territory after the recent victory at the Second Battle of Hoover Dam. It had been a big enough deal for my editor to show up at my home and demand that I cease the chemical induced nirvana I'd been enjoying at the time, put on some clothes and head to Nevada with all speed to cover the annexation.

While I was none to happy about his lack of respect for locked doors (nothing is worse for a journalist than an editor who can pick locks) and even less happy to be told to "Put some damn clothes on, you exhibitionist fuck!" the caps he offered were enticing. My more outlandish habits are not exactly a secret and thus the number of people willing to hire me was rather small. Sadly, I can rarely afford to turn down paying work.

I'd also called President Kimbell "a soulless, incompetent huckster" in my most recent piece and while San Francisco is still Shi territory the NRC influence there has been growing steadily for years. So getting out of California for a little while to let the backdraft die down didn't seem like such a bad idea. In fact, I'm sure that idea had occurred to my editor well before he'd found himself having to break into my home. Crafty bastard.

The caravan I'd been taking to New Vegas had stopped to resupply at the Mojave Outpost and wasn't due to to depart again for another two hours. Going back to the cantina was out of the question after the spectacle I'd made so I parked myself in a shady spot near the road, pulled out a cigarette and took in the Ranger Unification Treaty monument.

Meant as a tribute to the Dessert Rangers, formerly the closest thing the Mojave had to peacekeepers, signing up with the NCR the monument is big, black and as ugly as sin. You can see the damn thing for miles. But even I'll admit that in its own way it's somewhat impressive. It's also a damn lie. The old treaty is just an excuse to build something that's meant to be a symbol shouting across the wastes that this is NCR territory and that anyone who says different is going to end up on the wrong end of the Big Bear's claws.

Until just recently that weak threat was all that ugly ass statue was. Dick-waving in the dessert to try and scare Mr. House, Caesar's Legion and the Brotherhood of Steel. But now Caesar is dead, Mr. House is reported to be as well, the Legion has pulled back to Arizona after a brutal defeat that they'll be licking their wounds over for years and the Brotherhood have agreed to an official truce. There's no question that the NCR is running the show here now.

However, amid all the propaganda fodder that'll keep the mouthpieces in Shady Sands spewing bullshit with near orgasmic joy for years to come there's a nugget of strangeness. Caravaners, ham radio operators and loose-lipped NCR personnel all keep mentioning a person, a simple courier, who somehow has been at the heart of everything that's been going in the Mojave Wasteland. Just what this courier did has been labeled classified by the military. But the Golden Branch doesn't get handed out to just anyone. So whatever this courier (whose real name is Mark Fisher according to a carefully spun press release) did...well, now that sounds like a goddamn story.

I'll cover the annexation too, of course. Despite my fondness for drink, drugs and the casual use of firearms and explosives to stave off boredom I am a _professional_. All my professional instincts and several of those pills I'd popped were telling me that this courier and his story was the real key to the sudden changes that had swept the Mojave.

Just who was this asshole and how did someone who delivered packages turn into a pivotal player the history of the NCR? What was the truth and what was just more bullshit like that statue I was staring at? Was it all just PR hype? Or was it possible, even in this ruined, irradiated wasteland that someone who could honestly be called a hero could still come into being?

I took a long drag off my cigarette, flicked the butt away and lit another. What the hell was wrong with me? Well, a lot to be totally honest. But what was with that last thought? Even an aging borderline junkie like myself knew that there were no more heroes.

In the Old World, maybe there had been at some point. But if there were, all those heroes died in nuclear fire along with countless other luckless bastards. No, in this world there are no heroes. Only enlightened self-interest if you were lucky and a bullet or knife to the heart if you weren't.

Whatever the case, I had an array of pills all the colors of the rainbow in my pockets, enough jet and booze in my bags for one hell of a party even by New Vegas standards, a whole pint of ether, several types of mentats to help me keep my wits about me despite the intoxicants and several weapons concealed carefully about my person that would allow me to shoot, stab, smash or blow up most anything that I felt was getting in the way of the free press. I was a living tribute to the First and Second amendments of the old United States and a walking kick in the teeth to NCR drug laws.

I fished a red pill whose chemical pedigree I was too fucked up to remember out of one of my pockets and casually popped it into my mouth before taking another long drag of my cigarette. Indeed, it was fortunate for the Mojave Wasteland that I'd come. God only knows the last time a REAL journalist had come this way. It was time to get at the truth the only way I knew how. By grabbing it by the balls and giving it a good hard squeeze.

That is, after all, what professionals do.

**Author's Note**: This story is set several weeks to three months after the end of the game. Obviously, I'm going with the Courier having sided with the NCR. All the DLC content happened before the battle at Hoover Dam in keeping with _Fallout_ continuity. Just what choices my Courier made will come up in the story.

For the record, I made his "real name" by doing what I normally do in games that offer you the option to pick the character's name: create one from a mishmash of names of people from the _Star Wars_ movies. Even if you don't know SW that well, I think you can guess which two people I used this time around.

Lastly, I'm operating under the assumption that San Francisco is still independent of the NCR as it was in _Fallout 2_. Since Hunter S. Thompson, the inspiration for all of this, lived there for a time it seemed fitting that R. Duke would hang his hat there as well.


	2. Road Warriors

**Fear and Loathing in the Mojave:**

**Chapter 2: Road Warriors**

My caravan was a small one. A couple had been scheduled to depart with me but there had been some foul up with their paperwork and now they were yelling their heads off at some poor desk jockey in the outpost so loud they could likely be heard in Necropolis. That just left me, a trader named Carlos and a guard named Mona to make the trip.

Carlos was a short fellow who looked to be in his mid-forties with weathered skin, a small mustache and a friendly smile. The plasma pistol on his belt was in excellent condition which I remarked on. "Ah, thank you," said Carlos. "It was a gift from an uncle of mind who took it from the body of an Enclave solider he killed during his military days. Uncle Jorge was the best shot I've ever seen and he always told me 'Carlos, you take good care of your gun and your gun will take good care of you.' I took his advice to heart and he was right. This pistol his saved my life many times. I'd have it buried with me if I hadn't already promised it to my son one day."

I gave Carlos a nod a flicked my eyes over to Mona. She was a tall woman, almost six feet if she was an inch with plenty of tone but not bulky muscles. Judging by her features I had her pegged as a mix of black and Hispanic and in her late twenties. Her reenforced leather armor, machete, hunting rifle and the cold look she gave me very clearly said this was a woman who was not to be trifled with.

Under her glare instinct almost made my hand fall to the hunting revolver hanging from my right hip but I stopped myself at the last moment. It is unwise to put your hands on a weapon around a trained fighter unless you mean business. Much to the amazement of most people who know me, I'd actually been an NCR soldier once. But I'd not meshed well with the military life and managed to wrangle myself an early honorable discharge from a colonel who was happy to just be rid of me since he couldn't have me shot. Though if I'd actually been caught doing some of the things I'd been up to in those days it would have been another story entirely.

I managed a weak smile for Mona who just rolled her eyes. "Ready when you are, Carlos. Let's get out of this hole."

"All right, we're heading out, my friend," Carlos said to me. "Stick close to us and keep your eyes open. Raider attacks have been on the downswing lately but there's still a lot of _hijo de puta_ roaming around looking to rob, rape and kill anyone they can."

"You think NCR can take care of them?" I asked.

"Give them time and I imagine so," answered Carlos as he gave his packbrahmin a gentle smack on its flank to get it moving. He seemed to pause to think for a moment as we headed out of the outpost. "The NCR has kept the trade routes in California pretty safe. But even with the integration of the Mojave it's going to be years before things fully settle down out here.

"Still, the NCR did manage to take out the leaders of the Fiends. Well, some bounty hunter working for the NCR did anyway. In any case, the Fiends were as nasty as they come and without their leaders word is they're on the run from anyone they ever did wrong too. And that is a hell of a lot of people. If the NCR can break the Fiends then it's only a matter of time before they take out the other gangs and unaffiliated raiders."

I glanced at Mona to see if she any reaction to Carlos' words but her eyes were carefully flicking around us looking for any possible trouble. I'd learned that very skill in my time in the military and it still served me well. Mona moved with the swiftness and certainty of someone familiar with combat but not with the mechanical precision I've learned to spot in people with formal military training. I was curious as to what her story was but now didn't seem to be the time to ask. I filed my observations about her away in my head and turned back to Carlos.

"How long did you say it would take us to get to New Vegas again?"

"A few days. I need to stop to do some trading along the way. It's my job, after all. The way we're going is a bit roundabout but it's as safe as things get around here. There's a more direct way up past Primm and Goodsprings. But once you get to Sloan you're in deathclaw territory. I've heard that someone cleaned the deathclaws out of the quarry near Sloan but I'm not risking my life on a rumor. And even if they did, there's still more of those unholy things roaming around between the quarry and the Strip. Trust me, if you want to get to New Vegas in one piece this is the way to do it."

"Keep you eyes towards the north as we get out on the road. This area has a giant insect problem something fierce," said Mona. "Wasn't that long ago you couldn't set foot outside Mojave Outpost without finding radscorpians on your heels. NCR finally got them cleared out but there's giant ants just off the road ahead. You can see 'em in the dry lakebed from the road. But they rarely bother anyone who doesn't bother them first."

I squinted at the lakebed but there was too much dust blowing around in it to see clearly. In the far distance I could see ruins of something called a roller coaster than locals used to help guide them to Primm. Primm had officially become NCR territory even before the Second Battle of Hoover Dam. That was damn strange now that I thought about it. It seemed like something worth looking into later if possible.

It was then that I noticed Mona giving me a funny look. My woolgathering had not gone unnoticed. "I'll keep an eye out," I assured. Mona looked anything but assured and just shook her head.

There didn't seem to be anything else to say so the three of us headed down the road in silence. As we walked it occurred to me that my usual chem habits might not go over well with Carlos and Mona. They seemed the types who liked to keep a clear head while I functioned best when I was half out of my head. Still, I'd been able to continue my habits around straights before even if it did mean having to cut back on my normal goal of brutal excess. On the other hand, rarely had I met anyone so puritan that they hadn't appreciated a swig from a bottle of good whiskey at the end of a hard day. A willingness to share had earned me many friends in many places over the years.

I'd have to see how things went once we bedded down for the night. The chems I'd taken back at the outpost would be enough to keep my brain fairly entertained until evening and I could always pop something on the sly whenever we took a piss break.

As we continued down the road and moved along side the lakebed I could start to make out the giant ants moving about seemingly at random. I was about to ask Mona if they were the sort that was known to shoot fire when she suddenly shouted "Ambush!" In the same heartbeat she swung her rifle level and fired towards the ruins of a small building just off to the west side of the road.

My old military training kicked in instantly and I was already focusing on the building as I was drawing my hunting revolver. I was just able to catch a glimpse of a familiar pink spray around what had been a window when five men poured from the ruins. Four wore typical gang outfits. The other one was decked out in metal armor with an old motorcycle helmet which was likely a sign that he was the leader. The leader always having the best weapon and armor is a universal fact with every gang I've ever dealt with. It makes sense, after all. It is also very helpful in deciding who to kill first if things go to shit.

As powerful as it was my revolver wouldn't have an easy time punching through metal armor. So better then to take out the flunkies and then gang up on the leader. Ah, old tactics. Reminded me of my military days. And my childhood to be honest.

A bullet from the rifle of one of the gang members whistling past my ear brought me back to reality. All right, no more fucking around around. I was a doctor of journalism with a job to do. My particular brand of journalism demands that I make myself part of the story. Unsurprisingly, this has lead to gunplay on my part being a part of the final version of more than one article. It has also created at least a few widows and orphans.

I leveled my revolver, glanced through the scope and brought it to bead on the chest of one of the unarmored thugs. Headshots are all well and good but they're more difficult to pull off. Center of mass is many a fighting man's bread and butter and can kill someone just as easily if you know what you're doing.

Despite my years of chem and alcohol indulgence I have continued to practice with all manner of firearms regularly and diligently. I have not let the law, weather or being inside of a building interfere with my love of guns. And that is why, even with a brain swimming in booze and chems, I am still a damn fine shot.

I squeezed the trigger and after a moment that felt like a lifetime the thug I'd been aiming at jerked, several drops of his lifeblood spurting from his chest, and fell to the earth like a stone. A bullet in the pump did the job again.

Near me I heard Mona curse and from the sound of it I knew she'd been hit. I was starting to bring my gun around to take out the next thug when an explosion rocked the road. I whipped my head around in time to see the three thugs that had come out of the right side of the building flying through the air. Just a few steps away from me I could see Carlos holding a stick of dynamite and lighter. Carlos suddenly seemed to change his mind and before I could blink the lighter and dynamite were gone and he was drawing his beloved plasma pistol. He might not have been a big man but Carlos was as fast as any I'd ever seen.

The fight wasn't over yet so I turned back to focus on the man who'd shot Mona. I needn't have bothered. Just as I locked eyes on him I saw a shot catch him in the neck. He managed a wet gurgle somehow but was dead as soon as he hit the dirt.

I turned to Mona to see her grimacing as she brought her rifle around to focus on the last of the thugs. I saw that a bullet had gotten through the armor on her right arm, just below the elbow. It looked to me like a nasty graze but it wasn't enough to put Mona out of the fight which was what mattered.

I turned around again to see that the metal armor had saved the leader from the fall. He was on his feet but must have lost his gun in the explosion as he was trying to rush Carlos with just a knife. A bolt of green plasma hit the thug dead in the chest which caused him to stagger.

The NCR doesn't use energy weapons much. Too expensive and too easy to break. But they still teach their troops just how dangerous such weapons can be. I'd been hellishly hung over the day I had to sit through that class so I couldn't recall the details on the physics of just why it was a shot from a laser or plasma weapon could sometimes burn a man to ash or melt him into a pile of goo. Only the facts that it could be done and could be done most easily with a sneak attack seemed important.

But sometimes a sneak attack isn't needed. All it takes is the shot hitting the right place at the right moment. "The golden BB" they called it in the army. I'd never seen it until now. The thug's whole body turned plasma green in an instant. Though I couldn't see his eyes clearly the way he gave a banshee's scream told me that somehow he knew being torn apart at the molecular level. Then, the grave's own cry still on his lips, the man just melted into a puddle no bigger than a spilled cup of coffee.

"Jesus Christ!" I shouted.

Carlos turned and gave me a little smile before giving his blaster a playful twirl. He then walked over to the puddle and spat on it. "_¡Me cago en tu puta madre!_ _¡Me cago en tus muertos!_"

My Spanish isn't bad and I certainly agreed with his sentiments. "_¡Chupe mantequilla de mi culo!_" I snarled, not wanting to be left out.

That got a good chuckle out of Carlos. "I try not to swear too much but when I do I like to do it in Spanish. It's more satisfying, I think!"

The moment was ruined by a loud groan from one of the thugs we'd thought had been killed by Carlos' dynamite. The survivor was a guy who couldn't have been more than twenty with a pockmarked face and dirty blond hair. He manged to haul himself halfway up on one elbow and reached towards us feebly. "Please...help...the outpost...I give up. Please...I don't wa-"

That was as far as he got before Mona shot him. The bullet caught him under his chin and went out the top of his skull in a spectacular display of bone, blood and brain matter left a gory trail a yard long from his body.

No one spoke. The air around us was oddly silent the way it is after a battle. The silence of the Grim Reaper's work having been done.

The three of us exchanged glances and then fanned out to check the other bodies. The sniper Mona had taken out only had half a head left but she helped herself to his ammo and rifle without battling an eye. In the end we ended up with a hunting rifle, varmint rifle, a .44 and a switchblade. We found the leader's gun which had been a single shotgun. The thug who'd futility begged for mercy had only had a rusty lead pipe.

Carlos looked at the guns and frowned at their condition. They were poorly maintained which offended my sensibilities as a gun lover as much as I'm sure they did Carlos'. "Well, I can still get a little something for them," he muttered.

We'd also turned up some psycho and jet which Carlos tossed on the ground and shot with his pistol before spitting on the ground again. I'd have to pin my hopes of intoxication on the two of them being up for enjoying a drink after a hard fight.

While I'd been watching Carlos Mona had been patching herself up. "Don't skimp on the healing powder," Carlos called to her as he was checking his blaster over. "I got a good deal from another trader at the outpost so we have extra."

"It was just a graze. One will be enough," Mona insisted as she sprinkled a brownish powder into the wound before wrapping it with a bandage.

Tribal medicine, no doubt. Not so long ago it had been nothing but tribals out here. Then Mr. House had emerged and soon New Vegas was open for business. Old World glory and decadence shining in the dessert night. The chance to change your life with just one roll of the dice in a world where surviving day to day was still a struggle for so many. No wonder Mr. House raked in the caps.

"Come on," urged Carlos. "Ranger Station Charlie isn't too far from here. They finally got it up and running again so we need to report this."

I reloaded as the three of us and Carlos' brahmin (which had somehow stayed rocksteady during the fight) fell into formation again and continued down the worn Old World road.

No thought was given to the bodies. In the Mojave, just as in California, the bodies of raiders and bandits were left to rot in the sun as a warning to others. "Don't fuck with us!" is the intended message. But as we walked I glanced back and saw a vulture swoop down towards our battlefield, no doubt delighted at the free meal. Seeing that bird made me realized we'd left another message behind as well: "We're all someone's meat in the end."

**Author's note**: The building were this fight happened was the Nipton Road Pit Stop, just for the record. When playing the game I like to fast travel near there and pick off raiders with my hunting rifle. It just never gets old.


	3. The Banshee Screams for Fox Meat

Fear and Loathing in the Mojave

Chapter 3: The Banshee Screams For Fox Meat

"Carlos, you need to see this," said Mona as she looked through her binoculars.

The short man took the binoculars and peered through them at the town I could vaguely see rising ahead of us. "Nipton? That's the name of the place, isn't it?" I asked, recalling the map I'd glanced over back at Mojave Outpost before I'd decided it was time for recreation of the chemical variety.

Mona nodded. "Town got put to the sword by the Legion not long before the last battle at the dam. Never much cared for the place. Lots of shifty sorts and the mayor was the worst of the lot. Still, no one deserves the kind of things the Legion does to people."

On that Mona and I agreed. I'd not seen the Legion's handiwork with my own eyes but I'd read the same leaked reports as any other journalist worth a damn. Now I'd seen raiders do some sick shit to people during my time as a soldier. But those were just the random acts of depraved chem fiends and other worthless degenerates that the NCR has made an art out of wiping out almost as quickly as they turn up.

But the Legion is different. Their goal is to break people body and spirit. To enslave that which makes you anything that isn't them. I am Legion for we are many! Only this time it was a courier and not a carpenter who cast them out.

Jesus Christ! Just where was my mind going? Was it the peyote? The brown acid? Now wasn't the time to randomly start screeching lines from the Bible. I wasn't on a hotel balcony in New Reno or some other place where that would have been acceptable. Or at least no crazier than anything else that was going on in the area. Get it together, man!

"Well, I'll be damned. The NCR is in Nipton. I can see the troops moving around the town," Carlos reported to me. "Would have been nice if someone back at Mojave Outpost had bothered to mention this."

Mona snorted. "Typical NCR fuck up. The right hand has no idea what the left is doing."

"Most likely they're reclaiming the town now that the Legion's gone," I said. "Like what they did with that other place. Shit. What was it called? Paulson? Simpson?"

"Nelson," supplied Mona.

"Yes! That was it." I adjusted my hat and sunglasses to give myself a moment to recall the details. "Now I remember. The Legion had taken the place and was using some captured NCR troops as human shields. But the Camp Forlorn Hope boys managed to rescue the hostages and retake the town. Caused quite a stir once word made it back west. It was the first good news anyone had gotten about the fight with the Legion in forever."

"Wasn't much of Nelson left from what I heard," said Carlos bluntly as he gave Mona back her binoculars and started down the road to Nipton. "I did a bit of trading there over the years and it was a pretty nice place. Small, but the people were honest. Drove hard bargains too. But their goods were quality and they were always happy to see me. A trader can't ask for much more than that."

I saw a mournfulness in Carlos' face as we walked. He'd lost friends in Nelson, I was sure of it. I was curious as to what else he could tell me about that small, doomed town. But while I am a chem fiend, a scofflaw and occasionally the cause of small fires I do have some sense of decorum. I usually chose to ignore it but it is there.

This time I listened to it and asked no more questions. I'd taken a liking to Carlos and one thing I try not to do to people I like is rub salt in their wounds. Life does that to us all often enough that I don't need to help pick up the slack.

It didn't take long to reach the entrance to Nipton which sported what was clearly a hastily assembled guard station at the main entrance to town. As we approached the two men at the guard station focused on us. Alert, ready, but not aggressive. Training hadn't changed since my NCR days. The taller of the two, wiry and brown-eyed, stepped forward and gave us a once over. Seeming not to consider us much of a threat he relaxed a little.

"Afternoon, folks. I'm Sgt. Shoshana with the NCR's 8th Battalion. Mind if I ask what bring you to Nipton?"

Carlos held out his hand which Shoshana took and shook firmly. The little caravaner then offered up a dazzling smile. "Carlos Rodriguez. Owner and operator of Rodriguez Caravans. We were planning to just pass on by but we got curious once we saw you were NCR. I have to say, I'm surprised to see you people here. I'd heard this place was a ghost town and that damn near everyone had been giving it a wide berth since the Legion slaughtered everyone."

Shoshana sighed and adjusted his helmet, letting a stand of dark hair fall free for a moment before he brushed it back into place. "If you didn't hear about us then I guess that means someone at Mojave Outpost dropped the ball. Again!

"Anyway, you're right in what you said. Hardly anyone has set foot in this town since the Legion massacred the people here. Just a civilian who discovered the mess and reported it to Mojave Outpost as far as I know. Our orders are to secure the town and start getting it ready for "resettlement." We've only been here six days though so we've only just started."

"Who the fuck would want to live in a town where everyone got murdered by the Legion!" I blurted. Shit! The drugs had gotten their second wind just as I'd come across the damn NCR. I had to _maintain_ or this was going to end very badly for me.

Shoshana, the other guard, Carlos and Mona all gave me odd looks. After several long heartbeats Shashana sighed again and shrugged. "Frankly, I've been wondering the same thing. But I'm just a sergeant. All those calls get made by people way above my pay grade. Still, it might be a good thing you came by. We'll need visitors and traders to get this place fully up and running. Letting the caravans know Nipton is safe again would do a lot to accomplish that.

"Come on, I'll take you to Lt. Holmberg. He's in charge around here. And if you're looking to trade he's the one you'll have to speak to anyway."

"I'm always interested in new markets," said Carlos, amiably. "Lead the way."

Shoshana nodded. " Hoffman, watch things here. I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Yes, sir," said the other guard, presumably Hoffman.

We followed Shoshana towards a three story building at the end of the main road which I took to be the town hall. A vague but noticeable smell hung in the air. The acrid stench of burning tires. Despite the warm the the afternoon sun the air seemed oddly heavy. It made my nerves jangle and even if I didn't know this town had been slaughtered by the Legion my primal senses would have been able to tell me that something wild and and wicked had happened in this place.

I could feel old, bad memories at the edge of my conscious mind. Like quicksand wanting to pull me down and back to dark places and times best forgotten. Or battered with chems and alcohol in those times when those black memories became too restless.

Shoshana led us into the building which seemed to be in fairly good shape all things considered. "Please wait here for a moment while I get the lieutenant. He should be in his office upstairs."

Once Shoshana was out of earshot Mona spoke. "Look at the floor. You see it?"

I raised my sunglasses and looked at the floor. Sure enough, after a quick scan I saw what she was talking about. Brown stains on the floor. Small, but noticeable if you bothered to look. Splatter-patterned drops and the odd wet streak here and there. Someone had tried to clean up but did so poorly. Blood is often a pain to get out.

"I see it," I said, as I slid my sunglasses back down.

Carlos' frown confirmed that he had as well. "Never send a soldier to do a maid's job."

Now my curiosity about Mona was certainly peaked. I decided to try a little fishing. "You're not ex-NCR. I spot them a mile away. But you're clearly a trained fighter and a good one. What is your story exactly?"

Mona gave me a glare that could turn a super mutant to stone. "My business. That's what it is and no one else's. Clear, asshole?"

"Mona," Carlos said, his tone reproachful but soft. The same tone you'd use with a friend who'd had too much to drink and was reaching for another bottle.

Mona flicked her eyes to Carlos and the anger seemed to flow away. For a moment she simply looked...tired. But the internal defenses were back up in a second and she looked at me again with a poker face I would be worried to see across from me at a card table. "Sorry. We all have pasts. I don't like to talk about mine. Nothing personal, that's just the way I am."

Interesting. I was starting to think that there was a lot more to both of my companions than simple caravaners. My curiosity was up but pushing things to the point where I got on their bad side was not a wise move. Especially since the attack a little while ago proved that trying to get around the Mojave on my own would be a terrible idea. Best to retreat for the moment, observe some more and then try again.

"No, no. My fault for prying. I don't know if Carlos mentioned that I'm a doctor of journalism. It's the nature of my job to ask questions and sometimes I get a bit carried away."

Mona gave me a skeptical look. "A reporter? **You**?"

"Journalist," I insisted. "Any fuckhead write down what happened for other people to read. A journalist investigates. Observes. Comments. A journalist is a _professional_!"

Carlos seemed amused by my words and I saw him grin a little. Mona just rolled her eyes and mumbled "Whatever."

_Cazart_! Another win for true journalism.

It was then that a well-built man with short, straw blond hair entered the room. His uniform was notably cleaner than any other NCR personnel I'd seen and he had the air about him of a man used to being obeyed. After the obligatory size-up he seemed to relax and offered Carlos his hand. "I'm Lt. Holmberg. Welcome to Nipton. I'm told you're a trader, Mr. Rodriguez."

"That I am," confirmed Carlos as he shook the lieutenant's hand. "And I'm told you're the man to speak to about deals around here."

"I am. But there will be time for that later. I'd like to ask you folks a few questions first. I'm sure you have some questions for me given what word around the Mojave is about Nipton."

The lieutenant shook Mona's hand quickly and seemed to take note of her stoic detachment. Odds were he'd marked her as the most dangerous should we not turn out to be what we seemed. Holmberg wasn't a total fool, at least.

He paused for a moment before shaking my hand. "You...don't look like a trader. Might I inquire as to what brings you here, mister...?

Unconsciously I glanced down at my clothes. I'd gone through a period of infatuation with Old World styles in my younger days that still lingered in my taste in clothes. Currently I sported a vintage summer outfit from those days I'd gotten for a good price in Junktown. My look was topped off with a light but colorful jacket, some solid shoes, my sunglasses and a type of hat that had been called a "fishing hat" in the Old World. It was a look that I thought would help me blend in on the Strip but admittedly was slightly impractical for traveling the wastes.

But in my book style still counts for something and all the nuclear bombs ever made can't change that. Fuck anyone who says different.

I shook the lieutenant's hand quickly, pulled my arm back and gave my wrist a little flick. My press credentials slid smartly into my hand from a special holder I'd paid a Shin seamstress to sew into my jacket. It was just a simple bit of slight of hand I'd picked up in my travels but it never failed to impress rubes or tribals. "My card."

Sadly for me Holmberg wasn't a rube or a tribal. He looked at my press card as if if was a live, angry snake. After a moment he recovered and took my card, looking it over very carefully before sliding it into a pocket. Now there was a slightly stiffer, more formal air to his posture and a barely concealed wariness in his eyes. Trying to be cute in this situation had clearly backfired. Shit.

"Ah, Mr. Duke. I've...heard of you. I have to say, I didn't expect someone of your reputation to just stroll into Nipton."

He's read that last article about Kimball. I could see it in his eyes. Goddam Aaron Kimball! He could fuck things up for me and not even know it. Bastard!

"The annexation is big news," I said, offering my best smile. But the drugs were still doing their mad dance on my brain so I ended up grinning like a madman on turbo. "My editor asked me to come out here and cover the story. It's a big day for the NCR, after all."

"That it is," replied Holmberg, noncommittally. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you folks to wait a bit longer. I haven't been cleared to talk to the press so I need to check with McCarran for orders. But to make it up to you I invite you all to be our guests for the night. We're using a few of the homes on the right side of the main street as temporary barracks but you're welcome to use any house on the left that you want. Dinner is in a few hours and we can talk business then, Mr. Rodriguez."

"Thank you for the hospitality. We were going to try and make it Ranger Station Charlie to report a raider attack. But I guess that might have been a little too far to try and reach before nightfall," said Carlos.

Holmberg's eyes widen a bit. "Raiders? Where and when did this happen?"

"Back up the road a way. But there's no rush. All the men who attacked us are dead," supplied Mona, bluntly.

Holmberg gave Mona a wary look but nodded. "I'm glad you're all okay. If the three of you took out some raiders by yourselves you have my thanks and the thanks of NCR. We've been hunting down as many raiders as we can but we always welcome help.

"Anyway, I need to go get on the radio but I'll have someone bring you folks some water. Purified, of course. Even here the NCR can still supply some of the comforts of home."

With that small bit of propaganda Holmberg took off. Whatever questions he'd been planning to ask us clearly weren't as important as my press card. At least Mona and Carlos didn't seem to be holding this turn of events against me.

The three of us sat down in some battered chairs that had been placed along the wall to try and make the room seem more like a proper lobby. Sure enough, five minutes later Shoshana appeared with the promised water. We all accepted it gratefully before Shoshana disappeared out the door and back to his post.

Carlos and Mona seemed content with their own thoughts so I didn't bother with small talk. My arrival in New Vegas had been delayed but the signing wasn't going to happen for a time yet. I'd be there, I had no doubt. Besides, this Nipton situation intrigued me. The men stationed here were first hand witnesses to the aftermath of a mass murder. That was the sort of thing that journalists would step over their own bleeding mothers to cover and I'd stumbled into it by accident. I didn't fell lucky though.

Yes, there was a story here. Not the story that the Legion were goddamn animals. Telling people that would be like shouting from the rooftops that shit stank. No, the real story here was man's inhumanity to man. That story was old as dirt but it was also one that needed to constantly be reported. Otherwise, because humans are damn fools, people start to forget. They forget that man is the only animals that kills for any reason other than survival. And forgetting that is the same as painting a target on your forehead.

Around twenty minutes later Holmberg returned. I was leaning against the lobby desk enjoying a smoke which earned me a quick look of disapproval. But fuck Holmberg and all the health freaks like him. It hadn't been that long since raiders had tried to kill me so I'd earned a goddamn cigarette. Hell, I'd have been toking away on one of the joints in my bags if it wouldn't have landed me in whatever passed for the stockade in this town.

"Mr. Duke, it seems your writing has fans in high places," Holmberg began. "I've been authorized to answer any questions you might have. You're also free to speak to my men about what we've seen here. I promise you, it's a story worth hearing. I'll pass word along that they're to cooperate with you so long as it doesn't interfere with their duties and to answer any questions that don't compromise security.

"Mr. Rodriguez, you and your friend are free to do business with any of the troops who are off duty. I'm sure most of them have some caps burning holes in their pockets."

Carlos gave a small chuckle. "I'd be glad to help them out with that. Come on, Mona. Let's get to work. Until dinner then, lieutenant."

"Sir," said Holmberg respectfully as Carlos and Mona headed for the door. "Well then, Mr. Duke, if you're ready we can speak in my office upstairs."

Holmberg was a slick one, I had to give him that. I do indeed have my fans in high places despite my antics. But I wasn't so foolish as to think that I was being given this sort of access by fans.

No, I had a _reputation_. A mixed one, to be sure. But love me or hate me, people read what I write and listen when I speak. For anyone looking to climb the ladder more often than not that's enough to let a gadfly like me past the velvet rope.

I'd used that very rope to hang more than a few people. I'd also used a literal velvet rope to half strangle a bouncer who refused me entry into a nightclub in Dayglow. But that's another story.

"Certainly, certainly," I said as I stubbed my cigarette out in a conveniently placed ashtray on the desk. "Lay on, MacDuff. Lay on."

Holmberg clearly had never read Shakespeare because he looked at me as if I'd grown a third head. Am I the last educated man in the NCR? Still, I suppose not everyone has the benefit of having attended a Followers' school as a child like I had.

The clearly confused Holmberg ignored my reference and gestured for me to follow him silently. In short order we were in what I took to have been the former mayor's office and sat down at his desk.

"All right, Mr. Duke, I'm yours for the next forty minutes. Then I really do have to get back to work," Holmberg said. "Ask away."

"Let's not dick around then," I replied as I dug a pencil and my notepad from a pocket. "First, I'd like to know what it was you saw when you arrived here."

"The most fucked up scene I've ever laid eyes on," answered Holmberg without missing a beat.

My surprise at his profanity had to have been as clear as the Mojave sky because I saw Holmberg grin a little. "I've been told that you respond well to...frankness, Mr. Duke. So I've been given permission to speak bluntly and, truthfully, I'm glad of it. People need to know what happened here and if unbuttoning the collar a little helps that then the NCR is willing to compromise our normal ways of speaking with the press a bit."

Fuck! The interview had only just started and Holmberg had thrown me for a loop. Him and whoever it was up the chain of command he answered to. But this tactic did make a twisted sense. If Holmberg spoke to me in an off the cuff fashion I couldn't easily accuse him of being nothing but a mouthpiece for the official line.

People in the Mojave were wary of just what NCR rule would mean and people back in California were sick of the same old shit. A frank, "uncensored" interview would look good to a jaded audience. And if it didn't the NCR could just trumpet my...excesses, piss on my credibility and sweep the whole mess under the rug. No doubt every ass but mine was already covered by backroom deals and unspoken promises.

Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.

Fine then. If this was how NCR wanted to play the game then I'd play along. Buy the ticket, take the ride.

"I appreciate the candor, lieutenant," I said. "Go on."

"As I said, it was the most fucked up thing I'd ever seen. Right as we get into town there's a body on the ground just a few yards from the Nipton sign. The birds had been at him but we tell by his clothes that he'd been a Powder Ganger. The holes in his shirt said that he'd been shot three times in the back. I don't think the bastard even saw it coming.

"Anyway, we didn't worry too much about that guy. From there we could see half a dozen bodies, all in Powder Ganger outfits, crucified on the main street."

"Class Legion tactics," I muttered as I furiously scribbled notes.

Holmberg nodded. "Something like that never stops getting to you and I've seen the Legion do that to people more times than I care to remember. But if there was still any doubt about this being Legion work then the squad of dead Legionaries we found around town put and end to that."

I stopped writing in mid-word. "Are you telling me that a bunch of wasteland civilians took out a squad of Legionaries?"

"No, sir. In investigating the town we did find a few Legionaries that looked to have been killed by the locals. I'll give them credit, some of the people of Nipton did NOT go quietly. But most of Legion bodies we found didn't match up with being killed by a civilian who got lucky. Or was disturbingly prepared for intruders."

"What?"

"Long story. Ask one of the troops about 'Mr. Essence's house.' They never get tired of talking about it. As I was saying, we found the bodies of a whole Legion squad and damage to the town suggested one hell of a fight had happened. One in which someone had been pretty free with the dynamite. A tactic I'd recommend if I were to find myself taking on a whole Legion squad by myself. Especially one personally lead by Vulpes Inculta."

"Inculta? The creepy fucker with the dog on his head from the propaganda posters?"

Holmberg's smile became very thin. "We prefer to call those motivational posters, Mr. Duke. But yes, I'm 99% sure Vulpes Inculta, the Dessert Fox himself, was killed here in Nipton. Naturally the bugs had been at the bodies. But one of them carried documents addressed to Inculta and was wearing armor and a vexillarius helmet as would be expected of the leader of Caeser's frumentarii. Had his name engraved on the Ripper knife we found on him as well."

"Rather odd the NCR hasn't mentioned this until now. Inculta's death is a big win. With him and Caeser dead that leaves Lanius as the only major Legion leader still alive. Why keep it under wraps?" I asked.

A shrug was Holmberg's response. "I'm afraid that decision was made above my head. But as I said, I'm only 99% sure it was Inculta we found. Naturally the NCR wants to be 100% sure in the case of someone like that before we make any announcements to the public. I was ordered to have two of my men escort the body to McCarran for formal identification. So I imagine that an official confirmation will happen in a few days.

"That will likely be after you're in a position to file your story, wouldn't it, Mr. Duke? I'm sorry I can't give you an official confirmation or an exclusive on that information."

Dick Richardson's saggy left nut he was sorry. Announcing that Inculta had been killed and that NCR was already rebuilding the town he's slain would be a perfect ramp up to the annexation signing. No wonder the NCR had sat on this until it could do the most PR good.

Holmberg's smile improved a little and I could tell he'd seen me putting things together. Smug asshole. He thought he had me beat. We'd just see about that.

"Let's get back to what happened here in the town. Can you give me any details on just what they Legion did to Nipton?"

"Of course. I have to say, it was sick even by Legion standards," said Holmberg. "Nipton had a reputation for being a shady place long before the NCR or Legion showed up in these parts. It seems that the late mayor, the less than honorable Joseph B. Steyn, cut a deal with Inculta to capture and turn over some visiting NCR troops with muscle provided by a small group of Powder Gangers. But the Legion backstabbed Steyn and took over the town after he let them in. As I said, it looks like a few people fought back and even took a few Legionaries with them. But it was too little too late.

"Once the town was firmly under Legion control Inculta, likely inspired by Vegas' reputation for gambling, decided to hold a lottery."

Again I paused mid-word. "A lottery? Are you fucking kidding me?"

This time Holmberg's smile was genuine. The fucker was enjoying this! He was enjoying toying with me. Damn that I couldn't shoot him and blame it on a Legion sniper.

"No, Mr. Duke, I am most assuredly not fucking with you. Those who lost worst were crucified, the "lucky losers", as Incluta put it, were given a quick death by beheading. Most everyone else was enslaved. Though the mayor was an exception. Him they burned alive on a pile of tires. Here, I have several of the lottery tickets right here in my desk. We found them all over the town. I held onto some for proof since I know how the story must sound."

Holmberg reached into his desk and quickly handed me a grubby piece of paper with "Nevada State Lotto Big Ranch" written on it and drawings of two cowgirls on either side.

"That's life or death you have there in your hands, Mr. Duke. Which one you got was totally up to fate. Well, if you believe in that sort of thing," Holmberg continued. "Feel free to keep it, by the way. We have plenty."

I wondered which one, life or death, this ticket had earned its last owner. Just holding it made me feel dirty and that's a no mean trick for someone who's lived the sort of life I have. Once again Holmberg had thrown me so I stuffed the ticket into a pocket and tried to regain my footing.

"Earlier you said 'A tactic I'd recommend if I were to find myself taking on a whole Legion squad by myself.' Did I misunderstand you there or are you telling me that ONE man took out an entire squad of Caeser's best lead by the top man in the frumentarii himself? Bullshit!"

Holmberg held out his arms in a gesture of helplessness. "That would be my reaction too, Mr. Duke. But we've been going over this town for six days and every bit of evidence we've come up with supports exactly that happening."

Clearly I had vastly underestimated Holmberg. He'd been two steps ahead of me ever since he'd laid eyes on my press card and now he was making me dance to his tune. Molerat-raping fuckhead! This was no way to treat a doctor of journalism. Even one who was a part-time violent chem junkie.

"Proof? Just what kind of fucking proof do you have?" My anger had made the drugs flare up again. I had to get myself under control. I had to _maintain_. To be professional. Or I was going to end up in jail or shot for trying to kill NCR personnel. Who was I kidding? There would be no jail. There would just be being shot. The army didn't fuck around with that sort of thing in my day and I was sure things hadn't changed since.

Despite my outburst Holmberg remained as annoyingly calm as ever. "To answer you question, Mr. Duke, while I'm not a detective I am an experienced soldier and so are my men. Some things are obvious to any soldier's eye if he looks for them."

I thought about the blood stains in the lobby. That was true enough. What would I have picked up on the main street if I'd been paying more attention?

"Also, we have an eyewitness who has confirmed everything I've just told you."

"Holy shit, you have a witness! Where?"

Holmberg's grin reminded me of a picture I'd seen of a great white shark in one of the books at my old Followers school. Indeed, I had grossly underestimated this man.

"Yes, Mr. Duke, we do have an eyewitness to the horrific events that happened here in Nipton. He was one of the "winners" of the lottery, you see. He won and so the Legion spared him to tell the tale of their atrocity. Would you like to meet him?"

**Author's Notes**: I always found it a little odd that no one over moved in to take over Nipton once the events there were over. So I decided to use this chapter to deal with that.

It was also pretty fun to have Duke feeling off balance and out maneuvered. But he's the new guy in town and the Mojave has plenty of smart players roaming around so things won't be easy on him. That's something I wanted to get out up front early in the story.


	4. Interview With the Powder Ganger

Fear and Loathing in the Mojave:

Chapter 4: Interview With The Powder Ganger

I was stewing mightily as Holmberg led me out of the town hall. By the improvised barracks I could see Carlos doing brisk business with five off duty troops. Mona stood to the side somehow looking both alert and slightly bored.

"If you've got any Fancy Lads on you put aside a box for me, Mr. Rodriguez!" called Holmberg cheerfully. "I've been craving some of those for weeks."

"Will do!" answered Carlos with a friendly wave. I was glad our visit to this blighted town was going well for someone. If the way the off duty troops were jockeying to buy whatever small comforts Carlos' bags held was any indication then Nipton would soon be a stop on a lot of traders' routes. Just like NCR wanted.

As pissed as I was about having been played by Holmberg I couldn't find it in myself to be angry about that. If this town sat empty it would just become a hideout for raiders and bandits. If the place was leveled and lost to the sand then people would forget what happened here. And that left a worse taste in my mouth than the idea that the NCR would get what it wanted. Again.

I spat on the ground on general principle. Did I hear Holmberg chuckle when I did that or was that my ears playing tricks on me? Or the drugs? Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't out to get you. But it doesn't mean that every little thing you think you see or hear is someone plotting against you either.

Focus, man! Maintain. _Maintain_.

Holmberg lead me out past Nipton's houses towards a series of battered metal trailers. One had two restless-looking sentries in front of it and what were clearly recently improvised bars over the windows and a hefty bolt over the door.

"Howdy, boys. How's Shithead?" Holmberg asked.

"Complaining about everything under the sun, as usual," replied the hulking brute of a guard to the door's left.

"Keeps wanting more Med-X," supplied the other guard, a long-faced fellow with an obvious rancher's drawl.

"Of course he does," snorted Holmberg. "Hey, Shithead! You got a visitor!"

"Fuck you!" came the reply from inside the trailer.

"Just who do you have in there?" I asked as I fished a cigarette out of a pocket a lit it.

"A Powder Ganger. Got second in the Legion's lottery so they broke his legs and left him to tell anyone that came along what they'd done here. We found him in the general store when we arrived. He'd been surviving on the scraps in there since the slaughter. He couldn't walk but he sure could complain.

"So we did some jury-rigging and locked him up again. Did what we could for his legs too, of course. Which, honestly, wasn't much. He managed to halfway set them himself using rags and stray wood to make some crude splints. Our medics patched the bastard up as best they could but he's going to be walking with a cane for the rest of his life. Not good for a man who's going to get shipped back west for an extra long sentence once we get things in order here."

"Fuck your ass and NCR!" called Shithead from inside his trailer.

"And that charming attitude is why we call him Shithead," said Holmberg with another one of his cheerful shrugs. "Well, that and he won't tell us his real name. Said he called himself "Boxcars" when we found him. So we call him Shithead to piss him off.

"It'll do as a name until he gets shipped back west where they have the paperwork on all the Powder Gangers that were sent out here. It'll take time, but they'll work out his real name eventually. Then it's right back to his sentence with a heavy dose of extra time for all the trouble he helped cause out here."

"Just like that bunch of Powder Gangers that had been holed up in Vault 19," I mused as I took a drag off my cigarette.

Holmberg nodded. "Yeah, that bunch got smart and turned themselves in. I didn't hear how NCR got them back west but I did read a report that said they'd all gotten themselves an additional seven years. Rather light considering all the havoc Powder Gangers have caused in the region if you ask me. But the law has spoken.

"Anyway, let's see if I can get him in a talkative mood. Hey, Shithead. I said you got someone here who wants to talk to you."

"Yeah? Your mama wants my dick in her ass again tonight. Looks like they're both going to bed unhappy."

Powder Ganger or not I had to mentally grin a little at that one. Holmberg scowled for a moment but then his face shifted back to his annoyingly calm and cheerful look. "Very cute, Shithead. Now I was gonna have my men look the other way while you and this reporterwere talking so that you could chat. But if you want to go back to staring at the walls you're free too."

"Mind if I offer him a smoke?" I asked as I pulled a half empty pack of from a pocket.

"Smokes? That's different. Hell yes, I'll talk to the guy. I'll express the fuck out of my right to free speech for a cigarette!" yelled Shithead.

It was now my turn give Holmberg a shrug but he brushed it off. "All right. Give the cigs to Porter," he said, nodded towards the hulking guard. "Porter, slip Shithead his smokes through the food slot. Use your lighter to get one going once he has them. Huff, be ready in case Shithead does something stupid.

"You hear that, Shithead? You're getting a smoke break. But if you do something dumb like try and grab Porter through those bars you will regret it. Clear?"

"Crystal! Now hurry up. I haven't had a smoke in weeks."

Shithead didn't do anything stupid and dragging himself to the small trailer window offered me my first look at him. He was black and looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties but with a look about him common in men who lead brutish lives.

"You're free to get a little closer if you want to make talking to him easier," explained Holmberg. "But stay a least three feet from the window at all times. We rigged it so he can't do more than poke his fingers out of that box but he's still dangerous. We'll hang back a little but if for any reason I say the interview is over than it's over. No arguments. Got?"

"Roger that," I said in my old NCR soldier voice. That seemed to annoy Holmberg but he drifted off to the side to watch with the guards without a word.

Pleased at having pissed Holmberg off I strolled casually to precisely three feet from the trailer and pulled out my trusty notepad. "Afternoon there. My name's Duke. Um, R. Duke, that is. I'm with-"

"I don't need your whole fuckin' life story," growled Shithead as he scooted a chair closer to the window. "Just ask your damn questions."

"I don't suppose you want to give a name besides Boxcars for the story," I ventured.

"You suppose right, asshole. Though at least you got the courtesy to call me somethin' other than Shithead. I'll say that much for you."

"All right then. Let's skip the pleasantries. The Legion murdered this whole town. What the fuck happened?"

Boxcars took a long drag off his cigarette a blew the smoke out slowly. "It all started with Eddie. He organized the riot that got us all free. But once that was done we realized we were gonna need things like caps and food to survive. Us being the Powder Gangers. So he sends a bunch of guys out looking for resources. Places we could take over, caravans to raid and especially anyone who'd do business with us.

"A couple weeks after the riot we get word from a guy called Steyn. He was the mayor of this place. Now we'd been coming into Nipton to enjoy the local whores for a while. Didn't matter that we were escaped convicts. As long as we had the caps someone here had the ass for us. The only rule was we had to come into town during the day. The night is when off duty NCR would come here to get their fuck on.

"Anyway, Steyn sends Eddie this plan of his. Eddie supplies some of us as muscle to grab a few NCR with their pants down, Styen sells 'em to the Legion and we split the money. The Legion hates Gangers but they hate NCR more. So Eddie agreed and I was one of the guys that got sent out here. Only the Legion pulled a double-cross on us. The next thing I knew the head Legion asshole, some dude with a dog on his head, is making some speech about how we're all bad people and the legionaries are passing out those fucking lottery tickets.

"Let me tell you, that was one fucked up scene. People crying, others struck dumb they can't believe what's happening. Saw one guy piss himself right in the street. Of course, he'd just seen the Legion burn Steyn alive on a pile of tires so I can't really blame him.

"But you've already heard some of this from Lt. Dickhead over there, right?"

I nodded.

"No need for me to go over the rules of the lottery again. Anyway, despite what he said Dogman decided to fuckin' crucify every Ganger who got a death ticket. Said we didn't deserve a clean death. 'Crucifixion was good enough for criminals in Roman times,' he said. Whatever that means. He did keep his word on the two Gangers "lucky" enough to get enslaved though.

"As for me, as 'runner up' they took hammers to my legs and dumped me in what we left of the general store. 'There's food and water here. Survive or don't,' Dogman said to me. Then he went back outside to give Swanick, that's the loud as fuck asshole who was the big winner, a little speech or something. Fuck, I don't know. I was trying to figure out how I was going get any of that food or water that was still in the store with two busted legs and a whole world of pain.

"Not long after I hear Swanick yelling his head off again. I managed to drag my chair over to the door and open it up a crack. Out there I see Swanick talking with some white guy in leather armor and a cowboy hat."

I glanced down at my notepad and thought back to what Holmberg had said about the Legion squad responsible for the massacre in Nipton being killed by one man. It seemed our last player had entered the stage. "Can you describe this man a little more for me?"

Boxcars shrugged. "Tall and lean. Early thirties. Sandy blond hair. Exact description of the guy who'd been carving a trail through the Gangers for the better part of a week when I saw him. The Powder Gangers own Grim Fucking Reaper!"  
"Uh, what was that?"

Boxcars gave me an irritated look. "Okay, see, a week before this all goes down a dude who looked just like that killed two of our guys at a camp near the skydiving place up the road from Primm. One of our guys saw the whole thing go down with his binoculars and told Eddie.

"Not too much later this same guy, one of our best scouts, he sees the same dude lead a militia in Goodsprings against about half a dozen Gangers who decided to take over the town. Reaperman blew ol' Joe Cobb's head to bits personally. I knew Cobb and that motherfucker was not the kind who would go down easy. Even worse was the scout telling us that this guy killed three other Gangers in *addition***** to Cobb in that attack. I mean, about seven guys go in and one dude kills over half of them? That's just not normal.

"Naturally we're all kinda freaked by this but life goes on, right? And it did and I didn't think too much more about till I saw they guy here and knew by taking on look at him that it had to be the guy.

"Of course, Swanick was too stupid to put two and two together. Too busy yelling about having won the fucking lottery. So I see Swanick and the Reaperman talk for a minute. Then Swanick takes off down the road like he doesn't have a care in the world. Which is when Reaperman pumped three rounds from a 9mm in Swanick's back.

"After that I closed the door real quite and just started hoping the Legion who were still around would kill the guy. Sure enough a few minutes later I hear all kinds of hell breaking loose outside. Automatic weapons fire, dogs, explosions, energy weapons...You name and it was getting used.

"The it just goes quite and for a couple hours I don't hear anything. But I just stayed quite anyway. Then who comes strolling in the door but the Reaperman himself. I guess he'd been poking around town since the fight but I didn't really care. At that point I'd had enough for one day. Said I'd OD myself if he'd give me the pills instead of shooting me.

"But Repearman ignored me and just asked me about what had happened. So I told him. Guy got a funny look on his face when I mentioned that the Legion had taken some of us as slaves. Then, of all fucking things, the Powder Gangers own Grim Fucking Reaper saves he's going to go and try and SAVE those guys. If that shit ain't ironic I don't know what is."

"I told Reaperman I didn't give fuck if he saved those guys but he headed off anyway. I still don't know what he was thinking but he was gone and I was still alive and that was all that mattered. Then the next day he comes back and tell me he saved the Gangers the Legion took. Given what he did to Swanick I didn't ask what he did with them after he freed them.

"At that point I thought my number up again. But the guy just poked around upstairs, brought down some food and water for me and even gave me enough Med-X to almost make a party. Then he just heads off again without a word. Guess he figured I wasn't much of a threat with two busted legs. Hate to say it, but he was right.

"Anyway, the Med-X let me rig up some splints without passing out from the pain. I was hoping I'd be able to heal up enough to get out of here before NCR found me. But, shit, clearly no such luck."

Boxcars took another long drag. "Not long after they found me one of the guards told me they'd found all the Gangers who'd been crucified with a single 9mm shot to the head. Reaperman had put those poor fucks out of their misery. Guess Gangers rate at least a little mercy in his book after all."

"Thanks, that's all I needed," I said before turning on my heel and walking away. There were more polite ways to end an interview but Boxcars was a thug and thus didn't rate any of them.

"You get what you need?" asked Holmberg.

I nodded. "Quite the story."

"It is indeed. I wouldn't believe it myself if I hadn't seen with my own eyes. A lot of people out there would feel the same. But they'll believe it coming from you."

Ah, yes. My new role as a shanghaied NCR mouthpiece. Well, we'd see about that. But people did need to know what happened here and I didn't have to spin it in a way that made NCR look good. Holmberg had dropped the ball by allowing Boxcars to mention that the NCR troops had been coming into town a bang whores who by day were servicing vicious criminals the NCR was supposed to be hunting down. Whoever Holmberg answered to would not be happy he let that get out.

"I've got to go over my notes and think a bit," I said.

"Of course," replied Holmberg. "Just come back to the hall if you get thirsty. Dinner will be

there on the second floor in a few hours, by the way."

"See you then," I said with as much politeness as I could stand before heading off. Tool that he was I still needed Holmberg's indulgence for a bit longer. He'd already given me some rope but I'd need more if I was going to hang anyone.

I also did need some time to think as a though had crossed my mind during Boxcar's story. Just how many people were there in the Mojave could kill a whole squad of the Legion's best by themselves? Not many. And if you add that to the reports of a small group storming the Legion's HQ and killing Caesar, most of his inner circle and a fuckload of legionaries the by the Courier then it's not too hard to guess who Reaperman really was.

So the question remained just who was Mark Fisher? Who was this Courier and how much of what was said about him was true? And, just as interestingly, where was this guy now and what was he up to?

Then and there I resolved that I wouldn't go back to San Francisco until I knew.

**Author's Note**: The hardest part here was figuring out how Boxcars could have had any idea who the Courier was. That never really made sense to me in the game but I think I came up with a fairly reasonable explanation.


	5. Mr Essence's House

After my interview with Boxcars I needed to turn what I'd learned over in my head for a while. I improvised a stool out of two cinder blocks and a piece of wood and took a quick slug from the flask of whiskey in one of my jacket's inner pockets.

Soulless thug or not, Boxcars was a witness (after a fashion) to this Courier asshole really being the one man army some people had been playing him up to be. As I thought of it, my mind turned to the stories I'd heard about Lanius. If some of those were even half true he was a beast of a man. Someone so hard and brutal that he was either a throwback to the primal days of man or the vanguard of some new breed of human who could actually thrive in the fallout-ridden shithole the rest of us stupid apes had turned the world into.

I lit up another cigarette and my mind drifted back to a conversation I'd had three years ago in a San Francisco bar with an old Shi bartender. The subject of religion came up somehow. I'm a devote blasphemer and the bartender said he was a follower of some religion I'd never heard of before called Taoism.

I was too hammered to recall many of the details of what he believed. But during the conversation he showed me a pendant he was wearing under his shirt. It was circular and had a black side with a white dot on it and a white side with the black dot on it. But rather than being divided cleanly in half, the two sides seemed to be circling each other in a way that vaguely remind me of the astrological symbol for Pisces.

Ah, the crazy shit you learn just by living in San Francisco.

The bartender told me that the symbol was called a yin yang and that rather than good and evil the white and the black symbolized two complimentary forces that give rise to each other and cannot exist without the other. There was some stuff in there about balance, harmony, peace and all that other typical religion crap. But by that point I was too busy literally seeing miniature pink elephants dancing, shitting and fucking all along the bar to pay any real heed

Two complimentary forces…there was something there. The Taoists don't see their yin and yang as being forces trying to destroy each other. Just a duality. However, with Caesar and this Courier guy we also had a duality. For there to be balance someone would have to rise that could be a balance to Caesar. And when the Courier killed Caesar Lanius took his place.

God only knows what happened between them during the Second Battle of Hoover Dam, but Lanius backed down and retreated east. A great and final reckoning put aside for another day.

So now we had balance of a sort. But only of a sort. The Legion and NCR both have a champion other people can hardly believe could even exist. Of course, this can't go on forever. The Bull and the Bear cannot abide the existence of the other. They will battle until one or both of them are dead. For now the Bear grows its strength while bull licks its wounds.

Jesus fuckin' Christ! Where has my mind been going! Chinese religion, astrology and animals fighting each other. Were the drugs rallying again? Or was this just nonsense cooked by my frustrated mind? I took a heavy drag off my cigarette that burned it to the filter. I flicked the butt away, stood and spat. It was time to get back to real journalism.

I recalled what Holmberg had said about some of the locals fighting back against the Legion and him telling me to ask about "Mr. Essence's House." That seemed as good a lead as any at the moment. I quickly flagged down a trooper who pointed out the house in question with a little smile on his face. I was starting to honestly get curious as to what the deal was with the place. But my journalistic instincts told me it would be better if I went into whatever weirdness was waiting for me blind.

I strolled over to the house in question and was pleased to find the door unlocked. I boldly stepped inside and gave the room a scan. The large metal cage on the living room floor immediately drew my attention. I had the feeling that Holmberg had be right in pointing me in this direction. I hate it when the fuckers of the world turn out to be right.

Glancing around some more I saw some tell-tale stains of what had to be blood on the floor and hell of a lot of scorches and bullet holes from guns and energy weapons all over the walls. Like the town outside, there had been one hell of a fight here.

"Tanamachi, is that you?" came a female voice from the kitchen. "Did you recharge those energy cells already?"

"Er, I'm not Tamanachi," I said as I strolled towards the kitchen. "The name's Duke. That is, R. Duke. I'm a reporter with-"

"Oh! It's you! I've heard about you! Come on back here," replied the woman. "I'm in the middle of something delicate or I'd give you a better welcome to my little workshop."

I shrugged and stepped into kitchen. Where the kitchen table would be was now a workbench with a Mr. Gutsy, its innards exposed, while a short, dark-skinned woman in NRC khakis and a stained white t-shirt tinkered within.

"Just…gimme a sec and…" The woman twisted something inside the Mr. Gutsy with a screwdriver and the machine let loose an electronic screech that made me clamp my hands over my ears.

"Shit!" cursed the woman who twisted the screwdriver again, ending the robot's wailing. "I thought I almost had that thing working again."

I couldn't think of a good response to that so I decided to get on with business. "I was told there might be something of journalistic interest here…uh, what's your name and rank, soldier?"

"Oh, sorry about that. It's too hot in this place for the full uniform sometimes," said the woman as she cleaned her hands off with a rag to shake mine. I did so and felt something oily get on my hands anyway. "It's corporal. Corporal Anita Gupta, NCR Core of Engineers. Like I said before, welcome to my little workshop.

"Cripes, where are my manners? Would you like some coffee? Let me get you some coffee. I could use some coffee."

Gupta stepped over to the nearby stove where I noticed a coffee pot was being kept warm. She poured two cups and passed me one with coffee that had to be as black as midnight at the bottom of a tar pit. Gupta downed half of hers in a gulp and grinned like cat who'd just been given a fish afterward. "Oh yeah! I knew I was starting to flatline. I'm sorry, I got distracted. What were you saying before, Mr. Duke?"

"Uh, I was told there might be able to get some information about Nipton residents who tried to fight back against the Legion. Lt. Holmberg said to ask about "Mr. Essence's House."

Gupta gave a laugh that wouldn't have been out of place coming from a Chihuahua on jet. "You've come to the right place then. I guess I should explain. According to records on a computer we found in here, the guy that owned this place before the Legion came was some kinda paranoid nutcase. He thought the other residents of the town were plotting to steal his "vital essence." I don't want to think about what that really meant but that's why we call this 'Mr. Essence's House.'

"While he might have been nuts, he was hella prepared for trouble. We found two Mr. Gutsy and the bodies of a few bark scorpions he's apparently caught and been keeping as a nasty surprise for anyone who ever broke into his. We never did find his body, but we did find the bodies of three Legionaries when we came in here."

"Couldn't the Legionaries have just been killed by whoever took out the rest of the Legion in this town?"

Gupta took a sip of her coffee. "You mean that Courier guy? I mean, that Fisher guy?"

That got my attention. "So it really was him that did all this?"

Gupta visibly winced. "Shit, I said too much. I always get nervous and say too much when I talk with strangers. Been like that since I was a kid. I should have some coffee to calm down."

She took another long drink of coffee and rather than starting physically vibrate as I'd expected she actually seemed to relax a bit. "Uh, that comment was off the record. Officially just what happened here in Nipton is still under investigation."

I grabbed the coffee pot and gave her a refill. _In cafea veritas!_ Gupta smiled at this as I asked "And unofficially?"

"He was the one who reported the massacre to a ranger at Mojave Outpost. A scout was eventually sent out to confirm. But we had our hands full with the Legion and those bastards love to leave behind booby traps so the scout just had a quick "Yeah, everyone looks pretty dead!" glance through her binoculars and hightailed it back to the outpost."

Gupta paused for a moment to sigh and rub her forehead. "Before we came here they'd warned us that thing might be nasty. And I've heard plenty of horror stories about things the Legion does to people. But seeing it with my own eyes…god. I'm just an engineer. I fix things. I…wasn't prepared to see just how fucking evil people can be."

The suddenly wore and tired look on Gupta's face was a familiar one. I'd seen it on many of my fellow soldiers and I know that'd worn it more than once during my time as an NCR trooper.

"Man's inhumanity to man. The day that doesn't bother you any more is the day you need to stop being a soldier," I said. "I was a trooper once. I remember the time my unit found a farmhouse that raiders had hit. Father, mother, daughter of about twelve and a son who looked maybe nine. What was done to those people…it still keeps me up at nights sometimes."

Gupta seemed to appreciate the unexpected kinship and I could see her lower her guard a little further in her eyes. "Does…it ever get any easier?"

I shook my head. "Seeing shit like that? No. It marks you. Scars you for life. But the funny thing about scars is we all seem to have them and most of us learn to live with them eventually. In my case, my unit and I tracking those raiders down and killing them to a man also helped."

"I've never done more than take potshots at the Legion during the battle at the dam the other month. Even then I was shaking so bad I could barely aim my rifle," said Gupta. "After seeing what they did to Nipton I'd pay for a chance to take a shot at some Legion."

I glanced over at the workbench. "Is that where the Mr. Gutsy comes in?"

My question seemed to restore the cheer to the engineer. "Oh, you bet your ass that's what these things are for! The guy that owned this place found these babies and managed to get them working again. The other one is in the bedroom. From the blood splatter we found on that one he took out at least one Legionary."

"Mr. Gutsys are tough SOBs. What took them out?"

"We found the shells of two EMP grenades by the Mr. Gutsys. Normally those things are floating tanks. But EMP weapons are totally their kryptonite!"

"Uh, kryptonite?"

Gupta now looked full on flustered. "Yeah, I used to read a lot of comics as a kid. There was this one about an alien who had all these awesome powers and was pretty much invincible. But rocks from his home planet could…

The corporal caught herself and visibly blushed. "Uh, anyway. Robots plus EMP grenades equals fried robots. I'm hoping to get those two working again so that we can use them to help protect the town. It would free up troops for use elsewhere and lesson our need for supplies.

"Once they're up and running a Mr. Gutsy can go damn near forever without maintenance. Of course, without regular maintenance they also tend to start killing everyone and anything they come across. But you gotta admire that solid-built American craftsmanship!"

"Uh, yes. God bless America," I mumbled as I adjusted my sunglasses. The tale of Mr. Essence's house was an interesting anecdote, but there wasn't much here I could turn into a story. Gupta had said herself that she hadn't done anything more than take potshots at the Legion during the battle at the dam so she'd be of no help from that angle. I decided it was time to cut and run.

"Thanks for the chat, corporal. I'll let you get back to work."

"See you at dinner, Mr. Duke!" said Gupta with a friendly salute before she turned back to the robot on the work bench. I nodded, let myself out of the house, returned to my improvised stool, lit up another cigarette and inhaled deeply.

So what had I learned from all that? That one loon, in the right place, at the right time with the right kind of craziness could hurt even the most powerful. Shit, I live my life by that idea.

I exhaled and watched the smoke float in front of my face before rising up into the blue Nevada sky. Yes, indeed. The right kind of lunatic in the right place and time with the right kind of craziness could do all sorts of things. I truly believed that. Now the questions were where, when and who to unload my craziness on and just how far and fast would have to run to avoid the fallout when I did it.

At last the Mojave was starting to seem fun.


End file.
